His hand is still on my elbow, warm through the fabric of my sleeve. I should step back, create distance, return to the appropriate space between healer and patient.
Instead I notice how close we're standing. Notice the flecks of darker blue in his eyes and the way his mouth is set in that serious line that somehow makes me want to see him smile again.
Notice that I don't want him to let go.
"You let me win," I say quietly. Not accusation, just realization. "That last round. You could have pinched my arm when I was trapped against the crate."
His expression remains neutral but something in his eyes suggests I'm right. "You created an opening through unconventional tactics. That counts as winning."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting."
The standoff lasts several seconds, both of us watching each other with intensity that has nothing to do with the competition and everything to do with things I'm not ready to examine yet.
Finally he releases my elbow, stepping back to create professional distance. "We should get you off your leg before it decides to stop cooperating entirely."
He's right. My left leg is definitely past seven out of ten now, burning with the kind of deep ache that suggests I'll pay for this evening's exertion tomorrow. My shoulder throbs in time with my pulse and my ribs feel like I've been breathing wrong for hours.
But I finished all the challenges. Participated in a full day of festival activities without fleeing in panic or having a breakdown.
With Falla's help. Always with Falla's help, his patient presence and careful adjustments and knowing when to push and when to give me space.
The realization settles over me like a weight I don't know how to carry—that somewhere between medical checkups and panic attacks and ridiculous festival challenges, I've started relying on him in ways that go beyond healer and patient.
Started noticing him in ways that complicated everything.
Started feeling safe enough to be distracted by things like the shape of his forearms and the warmth of his touch and whetherthat almost-smile might become real if I figured out how to earn it.
I am in so much trouble.
10
FALLA
I've spent the entire day setting dislocated shoulders and wrapping sprained ankles from orcs who took the Reflex Test far too seriously. Apparently "playful sparring" translates differently when applied to males who drink constantly and need to prove their superiority through increasingly reckless challenges.
Ursik even came through my workspace—for a split lip from headbutting Kerra's elbow. I told him he was an idiot. He grinned through the blood and said it was worth it because he had won.
Males.
Though I'm not entirely certain I have room to judge, considering I spent half the afternoon replaying yesterday's events while supposedly focusing on medical tasks. Specifically replaying the moment Ressa stepped into my space instead of away, the way her fingers felt wrapped around my wrist, how her brown eyes had looked almost surprised when I'd caught both her wrists in that final exchange.
How she'd let me hold them without flinching.
I tell myself the analysis is clinical. Monitoring her progress, tracking her comfort levels with physical contact, assessing whether the festival participation is helping or hindering her recovery. Standard healer observation.
The lie tastes hollow even to me.
I finish wrapping the last idiot's ankle—a young guard who thought the pinch challenge meant full combat grappling—and send him limping toward his quarters with instructions to stay off it for two days minimum. He'll ignore me. They always do when there's pride involved.
Evening light slants through the longhouse windows, golden and warm. Day four of the festival means the Brew of Honesty ritual, which Drogath has been preparing for with the kind of dramatic anticipation usually reserved for actual important ceremonies. But he takes all the human rituals to this level.
Today's is ridiculous. Also dangerously accurate in ways Drogath doesn't understand, given that most orcs become aggressively honest after enough drink.
I should skip it. Tell Ressa I'm needed for medical duties, that she can sit this one out without breaking our agreement. The thought of her lowering her carefully constructed walls in front of the entire clan makes something protective twist in my chest.
Except she specifically told me last night that she was enjoying it. Said it quietly, like she wasn't certain if she should have. I'd told her that I was glad, watched something shift in her expression that might have been relief or anticipation or fear.
